


leaving a mark

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [83]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: :/, Canon Era, Lars Gottlieb's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 08:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20005168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: When Newt accidentally sprayed himself with gas while hacking away at a piece of kaiju, he didn't expect it would lead to him comfortingHermann Gottlieb, of all people.





	leaving a mark

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt: "You promised you would be here. There are things happening in my life and I…I can’t even trust you with that, can I?" I hope you write it! I know it'll be amazing!!!!"

He’s seventeen; a degree halfway completed already. The rings beneath his eyes are bruise-black, and at this point, he doesn’t bother to hide them; they add, he thinks, at some point, to the aesthetic of it. Once, even, he embellishes them with makeup, makes them comically exaggerated; it drips when they play that night, at some tiny, over-crowded, hot bar that he no longer remembers the name of; stains his shirt.

He’s twenty and teaching students the same age as, or older, than himself. The rest of the faculty treats him like an antique vase about to break, and perhaps they’re right—and nevertheless—

Newt is many things to many people; but, above all, he strives for _this:_ to leave a mark.

To be remembered.

This, perhaps, is what draws him in when the kaiju attack; Trespasser’s movements broadcast 24/7 for the duration it takes the military to take it down. He takes sick-leave for the week; remains glued to the screen, replaying the footage over and over again.

At the end of it, two days without sleep, and four since he’s stepped foot outside his apartment, he draws up a draft on his theory that the kaiju is an alien, hits _save_ , and falls asleep on his desk.

Later, he edits it; later, he publishes it; later, even later, the high of discovery and wears off and apprehension and post-high jitteriness sets in; the tension before the damn bursts.

Will it burst?

That, in the end, is the question; is it an isolated incident? An accident?

Or are there more?

Later, still, there is.

And then there is a letter.

It is heavy paper; Newt remembers this, because he himself has never used anything similar; he also remembers it because of the sender, and the words within—words that set into motion what is, in his humble opinion, one of the ~~most passionate~~ greatest correspondences of his life.

 _Hermann Gottlieb_ it reads, in the upper left-hand corner.

* * *

That, of course, has little bearing on his current situation—Newt, currently, is laying on the lab’s unusually clean floor, staring up at the ceiling.

The ceiling in question wobbles a few times, as if acknowledging his presence, and he attempts—and, subsequently, fails—a scowl.

No; the reason he’s laying here, on the floor of the—shared, now—laboratory is because he went and stabbed a bit of kaiju wrong, and that resulted in a cloud of gas escaping, and _that,_ in turn, resulted in him feeling far too lightheaded to ‘stand.

Hence, the floor.

The cane that prods his side is hard enough that he winces; gives a hiss of pain through gritted teeth. “Fuck off,” he attempts, the words sounding more like a series of disjointed mumblings.

Hermann prods him again. “You’re on _my_ side,” he snaps.

Ah.

Well, that would explain the unusual level of cleanliness.

“Great,” Newt says, this time clearly enough to _be_ a word. “Herms, man, I will be _sick_ on your grandpa sweater if you try and make me move.”

That, at least, gets the other to stop prodding at him, though grudgingly, Newt can tell, even without his— 

“Glasses?” Hermann offers, irritably. “I have _no_ idea, Geiszler.”

“Fuck you,” Newt says. “God. I swear.” And he trails off there, uncertain of what—or perhaps, _how_ —to say. Instead, he tries to focus his gaze back onto the ceiling, instead of Hermann’s stupid face.

“Should I put us in quarantine?” Hermann asks, for once, helpful. Then, he ruins the gesture by adding, “If you infect _myself_ as well, I promise you, Newton Geiszler, there will be retribution.”

“Oh, _really?_ What are you going to do— _bore_ me to death?” Newt mocks. “And no, you don’t. It’s non-toxic, just…temporarily discom—dis—”

“Discombobulating?” Hermann offers. Newt gives him a lukewarm glare.

Crisis averted, they lapse into silence.

An indeterminate amount of time later, it’s pierced by the shrill ring of a cellphone—loud enough to be startling. He closes his eyes and hopes that it passes soon.

It’s Hermann’s; the tenor of his voice is different, somehow; he’s not sure, exactly—can’t make out the exact words, but the physicist sounds…upset.

“Bastien, please—”

Hermann’s closer now, enough that Newt can make out what the person on the other end is saying—or, rather, _shouting._

“You promised you would be here. There are things happening in my life and I…I can’t even trust you with that, can I?” It’s delivered in a sharp, bitter tone—and Hermann draws in a halting breath. 

“Bastien,” he starts, voice trembling, “I can’t—there’s nothing I can do—”

“ _Have you even tried?_ ”

The words make Hermann recoil, pain flitting across his face, and Newt realises, suddenly, that whatever this is, it’s no petty argument. Hermann looks— _hurt._

The call ends there; Hermann staring blankly at the wall, phone in hand; the person on the other end hung up on him as soon as he finished shouting.

Newt blinks, tries to think of what to say. “Hey, Hermann…?” he tries, tentatively, “um, are you…are you okay?”

Hermann closes his eyes for a second; turns to face him. “Yes,” he says, dully.

“ _Sure,_ ” Newt says, sceptically, and manages to sit up partway. “Yeah, no, not buying it, bud. You look like someone just killed your puppy. C’mon, dude, what is it?”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then Hermann sighs softly. “I—as you know, I don’t have…the best relationship with my family,” he says. “My two older siblings moved out as soon as they could, leaving myself to try and protect my brother, Bastien, from my father’s displeasure.”

He stops, there; there’s no need to elaborate; Newt can piece together what he’s left unsaid. “Oh, Hermann…” he trails off.

“Do not _pity_ me,” Hermann says sharply. “I’ve done just fine. However, leaving meant that Bastien had no one to—” He stops, jaw clenched. “He’s right to be upset at me; I’ve failed to protect him adequately. We’ve become…estranged.”

“Bull_shit, _” Newt says, so fiercely it surprises him, “whatever happened, Hermann, that’s not on you. You were a _kid,_ for crying out loud—it’s not your fault.”

“I—”

“ _No,_ ” Newt snaps. “Look, I’m kind of out of it right now, so I’m sorry if this comes across as rude, or whatever, but—Hermann, _it wasn’t your fucking job,_ okay? You were a kid. And it sucks that that happened, but from what you’re saying, it sounds like you did everything you could. The distance between you two isn’t your fault, okay?” He catches Hermann’s gaze, and waits.

Finally, the other gives a nearly imperceptible nod. 

“Good,” Newt says. “Now, can you help me up, please?”

Hermann scowls at him. “You wouldn’t _be_ in this situation if you had simply followed proper containment protocol,” he says, snidely, but Newt can see the glimmer of gratefulness in his eyes for the change of subject.

* * *

Later, he thinks that, perhaps, so long as he can help even just one person, he’ll have left enough of a mark.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
